God Emperor of Faerun
by Irandrura
Summary: Something of a crack cross-over: What would happen if the Immortal God-Emperor of Man, and several of his primarchs, were sent to the Forgotten Realms? Insanity will ensue.
1. Chapter 1

"What do you bring me, Yaphyll?"  
The youngest of the zulkirs bristled at the insult, but hid it well. One did not reach her rank without learning how to submit to a master, and while the zulkirs of divination and necromancy were theoretically on a level, in practice Szass Tam was very much the master still. Even bloodthirsty Aznar Thrul would admit that, and Yaphyll was his match neither in aggression or magical power. That one of the reasons she grudgingly agreed to spy on him for Tam in itself. The lich knew much, and all that he didn't yet was entrusted to Yaphyll's magics.  
"Most revered, in my monitors of the astral plane according to your wishes, I have recognised the formation of several new planar conduits connected to Toril."  
Tam said nothing. After all, planar travel was common. New conduits appeared and were destroyed and shifted all the time. Yaphyll coughed and hurried on.  
"This would normally be no cause for concern, but upon closer inspection, these conduits stem from a plane unknown to me. If it were not impossible, I would say they pass through the Far Realms. When I drew one off to determine its origin, my laboratory was attacked by strange brass-skinned fiends that proved immune to any planar locks I thought to attempt. I was able to close this particular portal, but whatever the denizens of these realms are, I fear they are hostile."  
"You suspect deliberate invasion?" Tam asked, short and to the point.  
"I thought so at first, but the new creatures have made no effort to travel here that I can tell. Even the ones that attacked seemed more confused than anything else."  
"You read their thoughts?"  
"…no, most revered. One of my apprentices made the attempt, though. Now, he is mad. I thought it best not to repeat him. I suspect they were drawn through simply because I had made the portal. If it is an invasion, it is not being run by any creatures that thinks as we do."  
Szass Tam seemed to pause for a moment, weighing up various options. The zulkir of divination waited respectfully for a moment, then continued.  
"Most revered, I am not of the opinion that this discovery constitutes any threat to our plans. A temporary conjunction, no more. Whether this is some new beast from the Far Realms or evidence of a rival multiversal structure is a matter for scholars, but…"  
"But, Yaphyll?"  
"But in the last few hours, some new presence has emerged. What it is, I cannot say. After it passed through the conduits it… it was if the astral plane was filled with static, as if some unconscious power was spilling over to overwhelm everything nearby. Then it was gone. If it was a being, it knows how to hide itself."  
Tam's eyes glittered black for a moment.  
"I want no hidden beings able to work against us, Yaphyll. You will find out what this thing is. Immediately."

A man wakes. He leaps to his feet, glittering sword bare in his hands as he whirls. _What have you done, my son?_ he wonders, for this is not the _Vengeful Spirit_ as he remembers it. There are no bulkheads, no plasteel windows, no loyal Astartes guarding each corridor. It is green. As his mind focuses, he realises he stands on grass. To his left there stands an oak, straining towards a foreign sun. Is this another of Chaos' lies? Could Horus have disrupted the teleportation? No – he cannot be that powerful yet. Can he?

The man stretches forth with his mind, fighting the illusion, but he feels nothing. There is no malevolent presence in the background, nothing lying to his senses. Several more moments pass before he realises it. There is _no_ malevolent presence! The constant weight of Chaos is gone. He cannot think back to a time when he had not been able to feel its slick taint on the fabric of reality, but now, he cannot. It is freedom. Here, the Warp lies calm, and for a moment he wants to cry with joy.

What of the others? What of proud Rogal Dorn or puissant Sanguinius? What of the loyal Astartes that would follow him on this, what was to be their final strike against the Warmaster? He stretches out again and cannot feel their minds, nor any familiar mind. Are they still in the Palace, or did they reach the battle barge? Worry twists and writhes in his gut. Without him, what chance have they against Horus, the brightest star?

With an effort he re-asserts his iron will. He will not be controlled by fear or by ignorance. He sheathes his sword and walks from the field. There are humans nearby. Leaving the copse, he is greeted by an array of neatly-trimmed fields. In the distance he sees a cluster of primitive buildings. A man in the fields raises his head, waving from beneath a broad-brimmed hat. He says something in an unknown tongue.

The first man reaches out and touches the farmer's mind. Carefully, parting memories like silk curtains, he draws upon the farmer's knowledge. This place is called Daggerford, and it is a small village in the Western Heartlands, lying about one hundred and thirty miles from a place called Waterdeep. The farmer believes Waterdeep is the largest city in the world, but it is a small town next to any in the world the stranger calls home.  
"Ho, stranger! What brings you to Daggerford?" the farmer asks.  
The stranger inclines his head. For now, the man they called 'Emperor' will be something far more humble.  
"Well met," he says, knowing this to be a local idiom. "I am Nicos tel Forar, an adventurer. I mean to rest here on my way to Waterdeep."  
It is all a lie, but the man who called himself Nicos has made far greater lies in his life and does not think twice of it.  
_______________________________________________________________________________

A tenday passes before Nicos reaches Waterdeep. He chooses to move slowly, the better to acquaint himself with this new world. He ransacks – gently – the minds of those he encounters and learns much. Not only humans are to be found here, but many different sentient races. Some remind him of those he has already encountered, such as eldar or orks, but others are unknown to him. It is almost as if this realm parodies his own – occasionally he rages against it, but other times is strangely attracted to it. He hears of lands where men, elda- no, _elves_, and squat creatures called dwarves live in something approaching harmony, and does not know whether this is a foul practice to stamp out or something fine, to be encouraged.

As he enters the city, appearing only as an innocent traveller, he feels a presence stretching out to him. It is almost comforting, after spending days in psychic silence, without either the oppressive blanket of Chaos or the more welcome connections with his psychic servants, such as his favoured Custodians, the Sigillite Malcador, or Magnus the Red. No – not Magnus. Not any more.

He responds guardedly, allowing the sending to speak to him. It is short, and of a nature alien to his own mental powers. It tastes – describing the impressions of the mind is a task that demands its own, specialised vocabulary, but in their lack stand-ins must be used – different, of a tapestry that underpins existence, of a magic of rules and order instead of the painful swirl of energies that colour his own power.  
_Haha, stranger, not what he seems, no. Halaster has answers for you, yes he does. He waits in Undermountain for you, man of stars._

Nicos seeks to catch the trace in the, for lack of a better word, air, to follow the message's imprint to its source. This mind is not so easily plundered, however. He steals a vision of great caverns underneath the city, of a realm of tortured experiments and a dungeon made according to the whims of a madman. Then it is gone, and he will not tax his strength breaking in by force. Perhaps he can defeat this Halaster, but Nicos will play along for now.


	2. Chapter 2

Khalia cursed under her breath at whatever it was that had brought her here. Ostensibly the order was from Druxus Rhym, whose purview she was under as a transmuter, but she thought she felt the hand of old Szass Tam in this. Bane only knew what the lich thought he had to gain by sending a diplomat to Waterdeep – there was certainly no reason she could see – but if she had learnt one thing over time, it was not to disobey the zulkirs.

The sight of a Red Wizard passing through the South Ward so openly earned her more than a few suspicious stares, but Khalia was used to such things and had long ago vowed never to take shame in being Thayan. Nonetheless, she did make concessions to practicality – a quartet of bodyguards marched around her, keeping the rabble at a comfortable distance.

She dismissed the guards once they had reached their destination – the Yawning Portal. There were odder beings than Red Wizards to be found within, and this was not a time for aloofness. Why it was Druxus had specified she had to stay at the Yawning Portal she didn't know, but an enfeebled goblin would be able to guess it had something to do with Undermountain. Maybe Tam was negotiating with the Blackcloak again, though she didn't see why he couldn't have teleported there himself. It was an unwelcome reminder that she, like so many other Red Wizards, was nothing more than a pawn in the zulkirs' great games.

A motley assortment of adventurers filled the inn. Most were humans, but a handful of soot-stained dwarves were noisily drinking in one corner. There was even an armoured troll, surrounded by an open space that roughly corresponded to the strength of the wet, rotting odour it gave off.

She approached Durnan, clearing her throat to get his attention. Rumour said the innkeeper had been a fine adventurer in his youth, but Khalia was not impressed by his appearance.  
"A Red Wizard, eh? Don't get many o' your kind round here," he commented, deflecting a request from the troll with a broad wave. Khalia wrinkled her nose, glancing at the monster.  
"I imagine not. I trust I can still get a room, though?"  
"Of course, of course," Durnan said. "So what brings you here? I would've thought your kind would have better ways to earn a living than by raiding old Halaster's dungeon."  
"My business is my own." Khalia thought that sounded better than admitting she didn't know what she was here to do.  
"Aye. Meddle not in the affairs of wizards an' all that, I know the drill. Can I get an idea of how long you'll be staying, though?"  
"As long as it takes, no more, no less."

_______________________________________________________________________________

The lords were in session. Fifteen identical silhouettes stood in a circle, while the one individual stood apart to officiate. Magically distorted voices rang out.  
"The Zhents have their eyes on the west! With their agents in the Marches and Sememmon's fall in Darkhold, Chembryl seeks to expand his influence here. Their spies are –"  
"Paranoia! The Xanathar is on the move again, nothing more. The Zhents have their hands full with Scardale, we have nothing to fear from them."  
"If you would be so blind as to deny -"  
"Deny what? That we stand on the very outskirts of Zhent influence?"  
"My lords, please, we must admit both the Zhentarim and the Xanathar's Guild are concerns! Indeed, I suspect the former moves through the hand of the latter."  
"And just what do you propose we do? Your predecessor knew we cannot clean out Skullport –"  
For all their supposed wisdom, sometimes the Masked Lords were little more than bickering children, thought Piergeiron the Paladinson. Enforcing order on the city could seem a far easier task than doing the same for its fractious rulers.

The stink of ozone filled the air for a moment and Piergeiron groaned inwardly. The lords ceased their banter in an instant, forming a united front against this intrusion. A shower of sparks soon resolved itself into a familiar form – an apparently middle-aged man, black-haired and bearded, wearing dark robes and hefting a signature black staff.  
"Khelben Arunsun!" Piergeiron said. "You were barred from this council."  
In truth, Khelben continued to wield great influence despite his supposed resignation in 1364, but decorum had to be maintained.  
"It matters not," the wizard glowered, "you will hear me nonetheless. I bring you news that intimately concerns the security of this city."  
"Speak, then, and you will be heard."  
He did. There was considerable talk about 'meta-Weave instability patterns', 'entropic obstructions', 'raw elemental meshes', and other such magical jargon that he didn't understand in the slightest, but Piergeiron got the impression that this was a matter of extreme significance for the arcane community.  
"What, then," he said, speaking slowly, "are you saying we should do?"  
"You're the lords," Khelben snapped. "I tell you this only out of respect for rank. I shall investigate myself. Do as you will."  
Khelben left the chamber the same way he had entered, and clamour broke out among the lords again. That was the way of archmages, Piergeiron mused to himself. They told you just enough to cause panic but not enough to be helpful.

Nicos does not head to Undermountain immediately. He has not lived for tens of thousands of years by taking unnecessary risks, and he wishes to gain the measure of Waterdeep first. His mind is full of the experiences of others, enough to know the city like a local, at least on the intellectual level, but he knows there are few substitutes for experiencing a place firsthand.

He heads to the temples first. If he has fallen victim to some trap of Chaos, he must know. In those corrupted societies he has encountered, the foremost signs of Chaos taint have made themselves known through religion, even though their victims often do not know it. It is for this reason that he so distrusts such practices, and that he has fought for so long against men subservient to parasitic deities.

He senses no Chaos in these people's idols, but he has sensed no Chaos at all since arriving and knows well the danger of being too trusting. Perhaps it is a lie, one so sophisticated that even his abilities can be fooled. He will never again use his prescience as a crutch, he has vowed. If he could not see the betrayal of Horus (was it? Can he really condemn his favoured son so easily? There must be some explanation… but no. The Warmaster's deeds ring across a million worlds. There can be no room for doubt. Can there?), how can he trust his prescience again? Nicos shall be vigilant.

So it is he comes to the temple district. A plethora of signs and symbols present themselves. One by one he matches them up to names he has taken. A great eye… Helm. A sunrise… Lathander. A silver sword… Tempus. A clenched fist… Bane. There are preachers.  
"The Black Hand is not to be loved or adored, but feared!" one cries. "Submit to the word of Bane in life or be serve him in death!"  
It is an old rhetoric, the like of which Nicos has heard many times before. Submit to Chaos or die. He cannot stand the thought of such slavery, and notes down Bane as an enemy of man.  
There are hecklers outside the next temple, jeering. A hurled stone bounces off a window. This is a temple to Helm – 'Helm the Betrayer', as one rioter puts it. They feel Helm betrayed the mortal races in what Nicos knows is called the Time of Troubles, and blame him for the devastation wrought on their world in that time. Once again, Nicos finds this distasteful; that the gods, banished to earth, should cause such strife for the mortals in selfish competition. He applauds the actions of Helm in upholding the notion that the gods should be responsible to mortals, but remains disillusioned with many of this world's gods.

Clearly there is much to be done, if he cannot leave.


	3. Chapter 3

"Where are you hiding, Chaos filth? Show yourself! Wh- Aaah! So… so fast… die! Die! For the Emperor! D… damn you. Coward! Face me!"  
His ravings echoed off the walls and reverberated around the cavern, nesting in the stalactites as if they were trying to escape.

G'eldmyr looked upon the bloody heap in front of him and wondered if it were worth capturing.  
"What is that? An ogre, do you think?" asked Phyxwruz.  
"Can't be. Look at the bone structure, it's too fine. Ogres are ugly creatures, built for killing. This one's well proportioned. It might almost be beautiful if it wasn't so mutilated."  
"Don't let the Matron Mothers catch you saying that," the other slaver replied. Usually it wasn't wise to praise any non-drow too vocally where the matrons, or anyone with a grudge against you who might take it to the matrons, could hear. G'eldmyr shook his head.  
"Don't think I mean it that way, iblith. Anyone could see it. This isn't ogrekin. Maybe a small giant, though."  
Phyxwruz circled it warily. The creature's delirium had subsided into mumblings, but the potential for violence was still evident.  
"A giant? Come over here, take a look. It's got wings, or at least it used to."  
A dangerous thought occurred to Phyxwruz.  
"What if whatever attacked this creature is still around?"  
G'eldmyr sighed for the idiocy of the newest trackers assigned to him. If this was the best Melee-Magthere could turn out, he feared for the future of the drow.  
"Take it up with the clerics of Lolth. If there were any hostile beasts around, they'd have detected them. No, this one is quite alone."  
He thought for a moment.  
"Take it. It looks strong – we might be able to get some work out of it if it survives. Send a slave over."  
Phyxwruz was visibly relieved at the prospect of not having to touch the mangled… well, whatever it was. With a few terse directions in a baser tongue, he sent a trio of orcs shambling over towards it.

The bloody creature flew into action, somehow rising on shattered legs. Though it was unarmed, that seemed not to concern it. A claw-like hand raked through an orc's windpipe, while the second orc found its chest crushed with a single blow. The final one was caught in the creature's grip for a moment, whimpering in pain.  
"I see you, traitor," it whispered through blood-stained lips. Then he tossed aside the orc's broken body.

"Bring more slaves," ordered G'eldmyr, noticeably excited. "This creature will be mine!"  
Phyxwruz reluctantly obeyed, anticipating the punishment that was sure to come with the waste of so many healthy bodies. The creature slaughtered them by the dozen, but by day's end had collapsed – something Phyxwruz suspected had more to do with exhaustion and blood loss than any of their efforts, but G'eldmyr crowed in triumph nevertheless. The bloody angel was hauled in chains back to Menzoberranzan.

_______________________________________________________________________________

Khalia's earlier irritation had returned tenfold upon the revelation of further orders. Whatever Druxus, or rather, Szass Tam, was playing at, it served no discernible purpose that she could see. Wait in the Yawning Portal, they said. Sooner or later someone will come by and try to enter Undermountain, probably alone. They had no information about this person's name, appearance, or any other quality she could use to identity him – if it was a him. Just that the person was of great power and had to be tracked. Well, what did that mean? Powerful adventurers came to Undermountain in their dozens. Already she'd seen two groups go down, and the tattered remnants of another emerge, fleeing Halaster's mad labyrinth. Damn it all, there were _useful_ things she could be doing!

So, when the next adventurer came in, Khalia paid little attention. He didn't appear anything spectacular, nor did she sense any aura of great power. Just an ordinary man, olive skin and dark hair speaking of a southern origin, clad in dull plate with a plain, unadorned sword at his hips. Calishite sellswords were a dragon a dozen, and the sensors she'd discreetly set up didn't reveal anything out of the ordinary.  
"You are here to meet me."  
The man's blunt address jolted Khalia out of her reverie. She made a renewed investigation and instinctually raised barriers against mental intrusion, but still, could find nothing out of the ordinary.  
"Come, we will speak in private," he said, and Khalia hastened to follow. Perhaps she could get this blasted job over and done with, though she had to admit, her curiosity was starting to overcome her annoyance. The adventurer led her, unerringly, to her own room. She closed the door behind her, lingering over the handle for a moment as she mentally composed herself.

She made a short, polite bow to the stranger as she introduced herself.  
"Well met, stranger. I am Khalia of Thay."  
"This is known to me. You may refer to me as Nicos," the stranger replied. Khalia felt the remote tendrils of intrusion and strengthened her wards.  
"Do not fear," said the man who called himself Nicos. "I mean you no harm, and I doubt your defences are sufficient to stop me if I earnestly sought your secrets. Such a battle might break your mind, though, and I would much prefer to keep you relatively lucid."  
"It's strange that a man who means no harm would resort to threats so quickly," Khalia stated flatly.  
"I do not threaten; I merely state fact."  
A beat passed in stand-off before he continued.  
"You are here waiting for me. Do not deny it, your surface thoughts were plain as day. What I wish to know, however, is who you are working for."  
Aha, so this stranger didn't know everything. This gave her leverage.  
"No," she said. "If I'm going to submit to an interrogation, I want some answers from you as well."  
Nicos seemed amused by the thought.  
"Very well," he said, with the ghost of a smile. "What would you know?"  
Khalia took a deep breath, considering the many answers that Druxus Rhym would find valuable. The foremost settled in her head.  
"What do you want?"  
"To go home."  
"Where is –"  
"Answer me first. Who is your master?"  
Khalia shrugged. "Druxus Rhym, zulkir of transmutation. Who else? Now, where is your home? Where did you come from?"  
The stranger paused, thinking. The silence lengthened.  
"Are you going to answer or not?"  
"…it's a very difficult question," Nicos said finally. "Let us say, another plane, but not as you know them."  
"That tells me nothing," Khalia said, feeling irritation resurface.  
"It tells you I am the one you were sent to watch, and for now, that is all you need to know. What does this Druxus want of me?" he said, abruptly changing the subject.  
"How in blazes should I know?" Khalia returned, absurdly determined to be as evasive towards him as he was towards her. "The zulkirs command, I obey."  
"So I see," he murmured. "In good faith, then, I tell you now that I will enter Undermountain to speak with a man named Halaster. If you wish to continue to obey, you may follow me."  
After several hours and a message to and from the zulkir, Khalia grudgingly agreed to follow.

_______________________________________________________________________________

Sanguinius raged. He leapt forward, sword flashing in the air, but the arch-traitor had already moved. He twisted, slashing again, but was greeted only by air and the Horus' mocking laughter. Agony bloomed down his back with the flicker of lightning claws, but Sanguinius clenched his teeth, ignored the pain, and returned the blow as best he was able. He aimed a piercing thrust at Horus' luridly illuminated visage, a visage that seemed to morph into a black eldarin face as he struck. Grotesque amorphous creatures swarmed from the walls, constantly shifting shape and colour, only to turn into spiders and giggle with mad maliciousness.  
"Lolth's favour upon you, taskmaster…" he heard in a deep female voice, only to blur into Horus' bass rasp. "Why, Sanguinius! You could have stood beside the new master of mankind, but you choose its betrayer?"  
"Betrayer yourself!" the lord of angels bellowed and redoubles his efforts.  
"You were my brother…" Horus said, midway between a fond whisper and angry snarl, only to fade away and be replaced by another…"The Spider Queen wills it, fool! You will stand aside…"  
"I had never thought you for a coward, Sanguinius. Of all my fellow primarchs, I had thought you would be able to see the Emperor for what he us…"

Lucidity returned with a cold shock. A few moments later, so did pain. Sanguinius tried to arise, but found he was restrained. He grunted, pulling upon his chains, but could not muster the strength to break free. He collapsed again, and tried to think through the haze of pain. _Horus_, he thought, and would have spit if he'd had the strength. _He will pay dearly for not striking a deathblow…_

He heard a creak, as of a door opening. Judging from the sound of their footsteps, he guessed there were not Astartes coming for him, but neither did they sound entirely human. Too light, and strides too long. Again, his thoughts were drawn back to the eldar. Had Horus so much forgotten the edicts of their father as to employ their scum? For a moment he thought of the deviant eldar torturers Jaghatai Khan had crushed. Then one walked into view, a black-skinned female holding some sort of snake-headed whip. The ears, eyes, even just the grace she walked with all told Sanguinius that this was an eldar, though perhaps of a subrace he had not encountered before.

She said something in an unknown language full of harsh consonants. The primarch was momentarily bemused – had he not just understood the speech of the black eldar in his vision? With a grunt another person was pushed forward, this one obviously a human. The eldar babbled something to the human, who then spoke.  
"Ah… the mistress wishes to know if you can understand me?"  
Sanguinius nodded dumbly, trying to focus. The eldar said more, the human translating again.  
"The mistress wishes to know what race you are?"  
Sanguinius remained silent. He did not answer questions for xenos witches. The man repeated the question once. Then –  
"I am to inform you that pain will be the price of continued silence."  
He laughed bitterly, coughing up flecks of blood. He was already effectively maimed. What more did they mean to do? The eldar woman barked another order. The human regarded Sanguinius with what looked like pity, or perhaps sympathy. Several more eldar entered Sanguinius' field of vision, hefting the snake-whips. He managed to last almost half an hour before passing out again.


	4. Chapter 4

The lords were oddly subdued. Piergeiron would have been pleased that the pathologically squabbling lords of Waterdeep, if he did not fear their silence was indicative of some greater threat. More than a few of the lords were influential outside of their official roles, and he didn't doubt they'd undertook their own research into this disruption of the Weave.

As he had himself. Piergeiron was a paladin, but he understood how important a role information would play. He would not compromise his code of honour, but nowhere in the paladin's code was prudence forbidden. Despite his best efforts, though, precious little had been turned up. The mages he had spoken to, to a man had recognised the threat, but not much more. Tandelûme had been confident that the source of the disruption was centred on Waterdeep, which correlated what the Blackstaff had said, though Tandelûme was not the wizard Khelben was.  
"I do not believe we alone are aware of this. A noted Red Wizard emissary has been waiting in the Yawning Portal, for no immediately apparent reason."  
Piergeiron wasn't surprised that at least one of the lords had been keeping track of the Yawning Portal's clientele. After all, Undermountain drew many of the most powerful individuals in the Western Heartlands. It was possible that the speaker was Durnan himself, though they spoke with a smooth female tone. Regardless, Red Wizards were a rarity in Undermountain – though their spies were increasing in number as the Wizards sought to expand their trade empire westwards, plundering Undermountain offered too much risk for too little reward to be worth it to most Red Wizards.  
"Two days ago, the Red Wizard abandoned her post and entered Undermountain, accompanied by an unknown stranger," the speaker continued.  
"Where is the connection to the disruption of the Weave and the planar barrier?" another lord asked, about a third of the way around the circle. Piergeiron noted, with some worry, that a question that was usually asked with scorn was delivered with earnest curiosity.  
"Because the stranger was no ordinary adventurer. Divination magic reveals – "  
The speaker paused. Silence reigned for several beats.  
"Reveals what?" demanded a third lord in a gruff, dwarven voice.  
"Nothing," the first admitted. "It was as if the Weave refused to acknowledge his existence."

_______________________________________________________________________________

"Disappointing," said Nicos. "I'd expected so much more."  
Khalia gaped openly, control temporarily forgotten. The umber hulk's remains unsmouldered, crackling with something that could only be described in context of its not being fire. The dark-haired stranger hadn't even turned to look at it before the beast died. And this was not the first, either. Beasts were plentiful in the upper levels of Undermountain, but not one had fazed Nicos, or even commanded his attention. He turned, noticing that Khalia had stopped.

The Red Wizard ignored him as best she could, chanting all the while. Arcane power surged momentarily, but its blue motes exploded with tiny fury upon encountering the hulk's corpse. Furrowing her brow in concentration, Khalia increased her divination's power. She was rewarded only with a slightly higher rate of explosions. Disappointed, but wanting to conserve the bulk of her power for the rest of the dungeon, Khalia dropped her hands to her sides and sighed.  
"Shall we continue?" Nicos raised an eyebrow.  
Khalia regarded him suspiciously for what felt like the thousandth time.  
"That wasn't magic," she stated flatly.  
"It wasn't, was it?" he replied.  
"Nor was it of divine origin," Khalia continued, "or psionic, or any of the powers of this world. You should not have been able to do that."  
"Yet I did," Nicos smiled. "The zulkir isn't going to be impressed, is he?"  
"I – " Khalia cut off. It was obvious the stranger knew more about her mission that she herself did, and she didn't like the feeling. Nicos sat down, appearing quite at home in what Elminster had called 'the largest known grave of heroes in Faerun'.  
"Tell me," he asked, "what are your conclusions?"  
_I shouldn't be telling him_, Khalia berated herself, but found herself answering him anyway. She wondered briefly if he was manipulating her mind, but could not find any of her mental wards broken.  
"You're not a wizard, cleric, or a psion," she began slowly, "and neither are you a druid, sorceror, or any ordinary spellcaster. Wherever your power derives from, it is not of this world."  
He said nothing, so she continued.  
"Yet the same could be said of many planar magics, but none of those are as alien as the power you displayed. Physically, though, you appear entirely human, which would rule out any denizen of the Far Realms – and even they respond to divination. In fact, the only power active on Faerun in recent times with similar resistance to – "  
Khalia stopped cold. Nicos remained impassive.  
"_Ao_," she breathed.  
"Or, more likely, some servant of the god of gods," she said, coughing to clear her throat. The icy tendrils of fear snaking down her back refused to abate.  
"He – he does that, doesn't he? Use intermediaries? Of course he would, clerics, even Ao needs clerics. But why? To enforce – no, Ao doesn't need clerics, that's mad, but then what could he be? What would Ao be doing anyway? Is he displeased with the gods again, have they -"  
"Be silent," said Nicos. "You will never mention this nonsense again."  
Khalia shut up, taken aback. Was it just her, or had Nicos lost his composure for a moment? Had she hit close to the truth? She was prudent enough not to challenge him, but her mind was racing. Ao – or some other overpower. What else could fit?

_______________________________________________________________________________

He didn't know how many days it had been. With no other yardstick to measure by, Sanguinius reckoned time in terms of his visits, but even then, he was confused. Were they regular? The black-skinned eldar woman had returned time and time again. At first, she had brought the human slave along each time, constantly asking who he was, where he came from, what he was, and a myriad of other questions. Each time he had remained staunchly silent, and each time he had been beaten with the lashing, tentacled whips that served as weapon or torture device, or both at once, for these eldar.

Eventually she had given up on the slave. There seemed to be no purpose to the visits but the infliction of pain. If there was some schedule or pattern to them, Sanguinius could not see it. At the end of each session he would collapse into welcome unconsciousness, and awake to delirium afterwards. Or at least, that's what he guessed had happened in the few moments of lucidity he enjoyed before being tortured again. For all he knew, it was the black eldar who was the delirium. Every time, just before he lost consciousness, he would see the shadow of Horus in her elfin features. Sometimes the spidery, crawling language of the black eldar would turn into the deep laugh of the Arch-Traitor, while other times, the lacquered spiderweb patterns on their armour would run and melt into a throne, a dark terminator-armoured form reclining upon it.

He was thinking on this, blocking out the perpetual, lingering pain of Horus' strikes and the eldar's tentacle rods, when he heard another eldar enter. He steeled himself for what would inevitably come, but to his surprise the eldar was not the black-skinned woman with the lash. This one was male, brightly garbed, with an eye-patch and a broad-brimmed, feathered hat at a jaunty angle. Sanguinius suspected a trick. The eldar would not have broken their routine without reason.

The brightly dressed male seemed to ignore Sanguinius at first, striding through his field of vision to fiddle with something the primarch couldn't see. His boots clacked loudly. Then he looked up, seeming to notice Sanguinius for the first time.  
"They won't stop, you know," he said conversationally. Sanguinius remained silent.  
"They will not allow your body to heal until they know your mind is broken. Your powers of regeneration may be formidable, but rest assured, if you continue to resist you will never leave this chamber. If they ever decide you can't be broken, you will die."  
Sanguinius listened, but continued in his silence. He knew he would rather die than live a slave to these black eldar.  
"Or at least, that's the way it would be if no one interfered. There are rumours of the captive angel circulating among the slaves, you know. They believe they were sent a saviour."  
The eldar's derisive snort made it clear what he thought of that notion. Sanguinius realised that the human slave must have spoken to his compatriots. He was not surprised that the slave would think him – even a bloody and battered version of him – to be a saviour. The primarch had grown used to the awe he inspired in others, even when that awe was incommensurate to his actual physical stature.  
"You know little of us, but suffice it to say that there are many drow factions in Menzoberranzan. Some of us see profit in the fall of the Baenre. The war ruined them greatly, and ambition among the lower houses… you understand how it is, don't you?"  
The eldar let that trail off and walked over to Sanguinius. He removed a small vial from a pocket, and forcing open Sanguinius' mouth, let the pale blue liquid trickle down the primarch's throat. He kept his hand over Sanguinius' mouth for a while, ensuring it was not spat out. Then he winked at the primarch, tilted his hat, and simply disappeared.

Sanguinius understood the implications of treachery among the eldar. He had no sympathy to the male that had just left, but he understood that some group or groups would prefer him free. He vowed that that was a mistake those groups would soon grow to regret. He could still taste the potion on his lips – it was vile, but he recognised it as a primitive healing draught. Even as he waited, Sanguinius could feel his flesh slowly reknitting. It did not return him to full strength, but soon his own regenerative abilities came into play.

The black eldar torturer entered then, as confident and haughty as ever. Her eyes widened with shock as she saw Sanguinius, though – a Sanguinius strong and whole, not the semi-mangled body she had beaten before. The chains binding him snapped as he rose, and he wondered at how they had ever held him.  
"Coward," Sanguinius growled.


	5. Chapter 5

Stor relaxed, enjoying the peace. The cavern ceiling glittered above him, layers of stone stalactites reflecting the magical light of Narbondel – the enchanted pillar at the centre of Menzoberranzan the drow used to tell the time. The glow was about three quarters of the way to the top, the equivalent of early evening in the Underdark. At times like this, he had to admit, there was a strange beauty to the Underdark. A rothé snorted, and he cast a quick glance over his charges. Nothing seemed amiss, so he leaned back again. Old scars twinged as his back made contact with the fence, but if there was one thing Stor was used to by now, it was scars. The truth was, it didn't get much better than this for a slave.

It had been thirteen years since the drow had captured him. Or was it twelve? It was difficult to reckon time without the seasons. It didn't matter. Twelve, thirteen years, he'd still die in the caverns. The drow were far worse taskmasters than anyone he'd known near Luskan, but he'd learned to cope regardless. The ones that didn't rarely made it six months, but if you kept your head down and toughed it out, it was possible to survive. That was what had gotten Stor in charge of watching the rothé. The job had its downsides – he knew of more than one herder who'd been killed in stampedes, and it wasn't unknown for drow houses to attempt to sabotage their rivals' flocks – but all in all, chances of survival were good, and no one bothered to torment the shepherds. In many ways, Stor felt he had more to fear from other slaves jealous of his position than from the drow.

Some of those lower-ranking slaves had started spreading rumours. They said one of them had seen a celestial chained up in House Baenre. Of course, they'd believe anything. In the beginning everyone entertained hopes of rescue, and would believe any rumours of salvation, no matter how wild. Ha, what would the Baenre be doing with an angel? Everyone knew you couldn't break their wills. It was more annoying than anything else. Stor conceded, though, that something did seem to be going on in House Baenre. He kept his ears open – the house that claimed ownership of him, House Xorlarrin, was taking advantage of some sort of struggle. Orc and goblin slaves were coming in in greater numbers, not to mention minotaurs, and a drow house would only gather those if it thought battle was likely. You could get work out of orcs, but they were far inferior to more civilised slaves in that capacity.

He'd even heard of a raid on the Baenre compound recently. The house behind it was still a mystery to Stor, but he guessed they'd summoned some sort of demon within the fortresses wardings, that had then rampaged throughout the house. A lot of Baenre were dead. The drow didn't usually like to let their slaves see they were mortal, but there were some things you couldn't hide. The rothé had been spooked that day too. Probably the scent of whatever Baenre's enemies had conjured up. Ah, well, what did it matter? Drow houses rose and fell, but they'd always need someone to look after the herds.

_______________________________________________________________________________

The man who calls himself Nicos is silent. He is not happy. Again, a god? So quickly these people resort to tales of divinity to explain that which they not understand! In that respect, at least, they are kin to the human race he has known. The same old patterns, the same old weaknesses. He is beginning to wonder about this new world called Toril. Why has he been sent here? Is Horus making some point?

He comes to a puzzle. Colours and spheres and arcane energies swirl – it would seem this Halaster does not mean to challenge only combat skill. It is a simple trap, but Nicos wants time to think.  
"Khalia," he says. "I think it's your turn now."  
He points at the puzzle. Let someone else work.

What is he to make of these Red Wizards, that evidently have an interest in him? He knows well their reputation, taken from the minds of passers-by in Waterdeep, but knows better than to trust that. Perhaps they ought to be paid a visit after he speaks to Halaster. They remind him of a cabal of sorcerers, however, and memories of Magnus rise unbidden. If they are of the same breed, then they are surely his enemies, just as Magnus was.

Magnus… he was warned. Warned not to dabble in sorcery, told that it was anathema to all they stood for. But Magnus was right about Horus. Wasn't he? Doubt twists like a serpent in Nicos' gut. Maybe it is true that he did spend too much time on Terra, retreating from the Crusade before the battle was won. If he had waited, it is possible that both Horus and Magnus would be loyal still. Whatever he would have forfeited by remaining with the Crusade, it cannot have been as much as he lost through the great betrayal.

The Red Wizard woman steps back, and the trap disables. Perhaps he shouldn't dismiss these Red Wizards out of hand. Even if they are sorcerers, they may remain useful. And if they must make him a god, well, better him than Bane.

_______________________________________________________________________________

Sanguinius hunkered down in the shadows, and allowed the bloodlust to recede. It did, though slowly. He couldn't kill every eldar in this place – or even if he could, it was not necessarily wise. They did seem weaker than the eldar he knew, but that was hardly the least odd thing about them. After escaping their torture chamber, he was growing suspicious about the environment. It became increasingly obvious that he was no longer aboard the _Vengeful Spirit_. The revelation of various fortress houses in a cavern banished the notion almost entirely, barring the possibility of a Chaos-inspired hallucination. Sanguinius did not dismiss that possibility, but realised that eve if it was a trick, he had no choice but to play along. Similarly, the usually high-technology eldar were fighting with nothing but magical powers and primitive weapons. Even though he still felt weak – it would take more than a simple healing potion to banish the Chaos-tainted venoms that coated Horus' claws – he found no challenge in fighting off the near-constant stream of eldar hunters.

He was engaged in a constant stream of running battles. The black-skinned eldar seemed to always know where he was. Normally he'd have guessed a monitoring system of some kind, but these particular eldar seemed too barbarous for that. Divination was more likely, but regardless, there was little Sanguinius could do about it, short of making a berserk assault against the most prominent eldar fortress he could see. The notion had been tempting, which was partly why Sanguinius was grateful for this brief respite. He was no stranger to the rush of combat, but since recovering, he could not shake the feeling of some dark taint. Righteous wrath no longer came to him naturally. Every time he had to clamp down on a new bloodlust. _Is this how Angron feels?_ He didn't know where it came from, but instinctively felt to blame Horus, and whatever poison he'd pumped into his blood.

But why had the eldar stopped? He doubted they would give up the chase so easily, not from what he had seen. Suspicion warred with thankfulness in an already confused mind. He furled his wings in close and crept further along the narrow alleyway he'd taken refuge in, between a triangular eldar structure built around a stalagmite formation and the wall of one of the house fortresses that dominated the cavern. He heard voices – the incomprehensible language of the eldar first, and responses in a handful of tongues. A guttural, growling language dominated, but Sanguinius recognised something almost like Imperial Gothic amid the chorus. A bizarre accent, certainly, just as the human interrogator and the drow in the hat had used, but understandable nonetheless!

The thought of taking a prisoner crossed his mind. He still didn't know what this place was or how he had been brought here. He tightened his grip on the sabre he had taken from a slain eldar, and approached closer. He could hear something that almost sounded like chanting. One of them must have seen him, or at least received information from a scryer, because the group turned towards him immediately. It was a mixed lot – there were several eldar guards in the back, armed with swords and spears, but most of the group's numbers were composed of hunched over, pig-snouted humanoids, as well as a few figures Sanguinius recognised as human. They were all armed too, with a motley assortment of weapons and ragged armour, but Sanguinius recognised the biggest threat as being a robed male eldar, standing behind even the other eldar. That one didn't even face the primarch, but stood, chanting, making a variety of measured hand movements as he did.

One of the guards barked something, and the humans and pig-creatures shouldered their weapons, approaching Sanguinius with some reluctance. Sanguinius hesitated for a moment before bounding upwards. He couldn't fly, not in a cave this small, but he could slow his descent, leaping over the cannon fodder. The eldar raised their weapons and moved to defend the sorcerer. They were dispatched of with a few deft strokes, and Sanguinius' next lunge planted his sword through the sorcerer's rib cage. The eldar's death rattle sounded almost satisfied, though. The patterns he had drawn in the air glowed and spun. There was a crack as the wall between dimensions broke. A dry, red vista glimmered through a portal for a moment. Then it disappeared, but it left something Sanguinius could only describe as a daemon. For a moment he thought of Ka'Bandha, but though they shared a resemblance, this beast was clearly far lesser than the formidable daemon of Khorne Sanguinius had slain on Terra. But neither was Sanguinius at his best.

The daemon glowered, bronze body literally smouldering. Its horned head shook as it took in its surroundings. Then, focusing on Sanguinius, it raised a flaming sword and whip.  
_You are not of this world._ Sanguinius had encountered enough telepaths to be unsurprised that it would speak into his mind.  
"Neither are you," he replied.  
A sharp stutter that was the telepathic equivalent of laughter filled his mind. _Even I am not so alien, primarch. I wonder if these pathetic drow have any inkling of what they have captured?_  
Sanguinius briefly noticed that the human and orc slaves had fled in terror.  
"I do not deal with spawn of Chaos, daemon," he said, locking gaze with the monster.  
_Spawn of Chaos? You are sorely deluded. You face not one of your petty beasts of the warp but I, Nasdrubaal, tanar'ri lord of the five hundred and thirty fifth!_  
"All I need to know is that I face an abomination against the Emperor and all he stands for!"  
With that, Sanguinius raised his sword and leapt forward. To his surprise, the daemon managed to check his first blow, catching the eldar sword with his whip. Sanguinius' grip did not loosen, but the blade itself snapped. He ducked and leapt back quickly enough to avoid the swipe of the daemon's flaming sword, and then cast aside the now useless hilt. Bare-handed, and preferring not to risk touching the daemon's burning skin, Sanguinius retreated further.

The daemon snarled and gestured, sending a rain of fireballs at the primarch. Sanguinius drew his wings about him as a cowl, listening to the incendiaries burst harmlessly on feathers tougher than most antipersonnel armours in the Imperium. When he raised them again, the daemon was already in his face. Making a snap judgement, Sanguinius turned and ran. He wasn't confident he was strong enough to fight the beast hand to hand yet, but more than that, feared he could keep his bloodlust under control if he fought with all his might. He leapt to the top of an eldar house, hurling down a rain of boulders and broken-off architectural flourishes as he did so. He didn't seriously expect them to stop the daemon though, and was proven correct as it avoided them with ease.  
_What is this?_, it growled. _I had not thought you a coward, primarch!_  
Sanguinius set his teeth and ignored the taunts.  
"I had never thought you for a coward, Sanguinius," said Horus.  
The angel kept running, gliding on white pinions where he could, the betrayer's laughter ringing in his ears.  
He was cast to the ground by the flick of a burning lash. Struggling to his feet again, Sanguinius was stared in the face by an embattled, broken Terra through the battle barge's viewports. The daemon hissed, raising his armoured gauntlet, lightning claws glittering.

He turned, catching the whip in one hand. Ignoring the pain as best he could, Sanguinius yanked along its length, sending the daemon sprawling. He leapt away again, crossing the ramparts of some eldar fortress. Two guards brought their spears around, but he crushed the gaping, many-eyed mouths the moment they rose from the chamber's walls.  
"Face the truth, my brother," Horus implored. "The Emperor has betrayed us all."  
"You are the only traitor here!" Sanguinius cried, pitching an eldar body into the daemon's path. Its flaming sword flashed as it bisected the corpse. The bloodlust was growing stronger.

The daemon came on, relentless. Sanguinius swept his wings around him again, deflecting a hail of bolts from a group of crossbow-armed eldar on the cavern floor. There was room to shoot now – he was moving towards the centre of the city, and they could all see him as he moved. Of course, the traitor could see him, in the Chaos-inspired darkness of his throne room. Why couldn't he find him? Sanguinius flinched, muttering curses against the light.

He turned in the air, realising that, backlit by the magically glowing pillar in the city's centre, he must make a fine target. Sanguinius landed, crouching on the column's base, hunting for the daemon.  
"I will find you, coward," he muttered. He closed his eyes, focusing on the smell of brimstone emanating from the daemon.  
A second passed, then another. Another hail of fire came towards Sanguinius, peppering the pillar but failing to harm the primarch.  
"If you will not join with me…" Horus said, almost sadly, "then your blood will serve as a fitting sacrifice to the gods of Chaos!"

Sanguinius' eyes snapped open.  
"I name you traitor! Face me! For the Emperor! **For the Emperor!**"  
He planted his hands on the column, fingers carving grooves into the stone. He heard the demon approaching. He took a deep breath and heaved.

_______________________________________________________________________________

Stor led the rothé into the next paddock, gently locking the gate behind him. They were well-trained animals, due in no small part to his efforts, and followed along docilely. A distant spark caught his attention, near the centre of the city. He thought he'd seen a red flash, as if of fire… no. Probably just the rothé again, communicating with their magical lights. He looked back towards the fence, patting a rothé on the rump.  
"You wouldn't play tricks on old Stor, would you now?" he said softly.  
Another flash caught his attention. That one _definitely_ wasn't a rothé! There really is something flying about over there! One of the animals yowled, and purple-yellow lights flashed. Another followed suit, and another, until the whole herd was yelping among what was practically a fireworks display.

Stor shaded his eyes and hunted for what was startling his rothé. Something… moving, around the base of Narbondel. Stor heard a muffled screech, as if of something moving. It grew in volume, becoming a tidal wave of sound drowning out the rothé's cries. The herder clamped his hands over his ears and kept watching as the impossible happened. Narbondel's glow started to fade, then started flashing erratically, light surging up and down the pillar as if time had gone mad. Cracks developed and spread, and then… the pillar toppled down. A final ear-splitting shriek clove through Menzoberranzan, and then there was nothing. The rubble of Narbondel sparked erratically. Finally, as if in testament to what had just happened, there was a last, blinding flash of light – white, not the more muted colours of drow faerie fire. Stor gaped. This was beyond the ability of even House Xorlarrin! Involuntarily, the other slaves' talk of an angelic saviour came back to Stor. What did… what… the drow… the younger slaves… they were right!


	6. Chapter 6

Aravilar didn't sleep the first night. No slave did. None of them knew what had happened in the city's centre, but even the newest of them could tell it was big. He could only guess at what force there was mighty enough to topple Narbondel. A cabal of wizards, perhaps, attacking Menzoberranzan? Certainly there were families in other drow cities who could profit from it. Or a titan, perhaps, might have the raw strength. Perhaps it was even some liberating army. Other slaves had given up on hope of rescue, Aravilar knew. That arselicker Stor Haldman was first among them. Hmph, well, he didn't expect much better from a human. Too corruptible, no patience. It was no surprise they would break after just a few years of servitude. Aravilar had lived too long for that, though. He could wait decades.

So maybe it did stand for freedom. Who could say? Slavemistress Shrinrae had been tearing into them with unusual fierceness ever since the pillar's fall. He thought he detected an undercurrent of fear driving her latest cruelties, though. Even though the drow always singled out Aravilar for especial torture – a legacy of their racial feud – he took satisfaction in that fear. Let them be afraid for once. Shevarash knew they deserved it.

After several days passed, though, with no change, the slaves began to breathe again. It seemed some sort of order had reasserted itself. Even the slaves of higher status couldn't find out what had happened, though. Osaw, a Chultan who served in a drow household, said that even the drow he'd talked to didn't seem to know. He thought the Baenre were covering up the incident for some reason, which was tantamount to an outright admission of guilt. Rumour had as much credit as fact among the Matron Mothers, or so he claimed. Aravilar didn't bother asking how a slave with a mop would know what was going on at the highest levels of Menzoberranzan society.

Of course he didn't suspect anything was going to happen on the morning it did, though to his credit, he was the first to notice. After all, he only needed half as much sleep as did the humans, and it paid to be awake before Shrinrae arrived. Normally she'd stride in brazenly, flanked by a pair of male guards, and for any slave with the temerity to fail to immediately drop to their knees and kowtow, pain was imminent. She arrived this morning as well, flying over the ramshackle huts that passed for slave quarters. Instead of guards, Shrinrae was followed by a massive winged figure with death in his eyes. Though as hulking as an ogre and as finely built as a solar, Aravilar sensed an undefinable aura of humanity about him. Nonetheless, being the first slave awake, Aravilar found himself the first target of the figure's gaze. He quivered.  
"Eldar," the figure muttered. "These beasts enslave their own kind?" it continued, seemingly ignoring the elf.  
Aravilar took objection to being called kin to drow.  
"I am no _vyshaan_ _ilythirii_!" he said, and instantly regretted it. He didn't see the giant's arm move, but suddenly found himself in the air, dangling from the giant's pincer-hold around his throat.  
"You are eldar," he said slowly, as if speaking was a challenge. "You are the enemy of the Emperor and of mankind. Do you deny this?"  
"Yes!" Aravilar said, frantically. "I ha-"  
He was cut off as more slaves emerged, these ones mostly human. In blatant defiance of rationality and self-preservation, they came to crowd around Aravilar and the giant.  
"What in Lathander's name…?"  
"_Tluin_! What happened to-"  
"Who the hell are-"  
And a variety of other incredulous exclamations ensued. Though choking, Aravilar noticed Stor was standing in the back rows, keeping quiet. He tried to speak again.  
"I hate the drow more than any of you, and am no enemy to man! These people – " he made sweeping gestures, trying to indicate the slaves around them – "will vouch for me! I've helped them, we are comrades!"  
The giant did not slacken his grip, but cast his gaze around the slaves anyway.  
"Does the eldar speak truly?" he asked tersely.  
The crowd managed to balance its curiosity with a remarkable ability to avoid meeting the winged giant's gaze. Aravilar felt hope slowly begin to drain away.  
"Answer. Does he speak truth or falsehood?"  
Still no one spoke.  
"Answer!"  
There were some quiet mutterings, but not one slave proved bold enough to look the giant in the eye and speak up. Without warning, he released Aravilar, and the elf unceremoniously dropped to the ground. The giant turned away with a snort of disgust.  
"If this is all the strength of humanity, perhaps I should leave you to the black eldar. It is better to die than to live enchained – have you fallen so far as to have forgotten your heritage? My brother Roboute once told me that the only crime is cowardice. I agreed with him, and now I see the truth of his words once again."  
Aravilar scrambled to his feet. Though some of the slaves hung their heads in contrition, he could see that most were still afraid. Stor in particular was slowly backing away, looking as though he'd take any excuse to run.  
"Who are you?" Aravilar asked, as loudly as he could manage. "Who… and _what_ are you to do this?"  
The giant stopped and gave a half-turn. He spoke strongly, as before, but Aravilar thought he sensed disappointment in his tone.  
"I am Sanguinius, primarch of the Blood Angels. I was… weakened… and the black eldar took me. They have learned what means to cage a son of the Emperor. I had thought to save you, but if none have the courage to fight, I shall not waste my time."  
"Primarch? Emperor? Eldar? What do you mean by those?" Aravilar pressed on. It was dangerous, perhaps, seeing how close he'd already come to death at the giant's hands, but at the moment it didn't seem to matter. Some indefinable presence drew him on.  
"Do you know nothing?" the giant who called himself Sanguinius asked. "Very well. I shall humour you. The Emperor is our lord and master, the rightful ruler of all mankind. I and my brothers are the primarchs, who lead his legions across the galaxy. You are an eldar. Your capricious and deceitful race has proven itself an enemy of man many times over."  
Aravilar took a deep breath, steadying himself before responding. "I don't know what you're talking about, or what these eldar you speak of are… but I've never called myself one. I am of the _tel'quessir_, or in the common tongue, an elf. The ones who rule this city – the black eldar, as you called them – are drow. They have always been the enemies of my kind."  
Sanguinius turned, brow furrowed in thought. "Tell me then, elf, what planet is this?"  
This was not a question Aravilar was expecting. "This world is Abeir-Toril, of course." He paused for a moment. "Are you a planeswalker?"  
Sanguinius ignored the question. "Does the name 'Horus' mean anything to you?"  
"Not that I can think of."  
One of the other slaves timidly raised a hand. "Um… I think there's a god they worship in the east called Horus."  
"Horus-Re," corrected another slave. "Chief of the gods of Mulhorand. They're building him a new temple in Unther."  
"None of you follow this god, do you?" asked Sanguinius, urgently.  
A chorus of negatories ensued.  
"Nor Chaos? Khorne, Kharnath, Arkhar, Tzeentch, Tchar, Shen, Shunch, Slaanesh, Shornaal, Lanshor, Nurgle, Onogal, Neiglen?" The giant quickly ran off a list of names, none of which Aravilar recognised. Similar replies were given.  
"…good." Sanguinius pronounced. "I am leaving this cavern. You –" he pointed at Aravilar – "will accompany me. There is more I must know. Others may follow as they wish, though the journey shall be hard."

More than one human stepped forward, and Sanguinius regarded them approvingly. The majority, though, stayed back. Stor mumbled something, and when Sanguinius sharply commanded him to speak up, he tremblingly said "you don't know the Underdark. Anyone who goes with you will die. I'm staying." There were a few nods in his support as well.  
"Good. I do not want to be followed by cowards. Those that will, come. We leave now."  
Aravilar wasn't sure he liked the way Sanguinius took his consent for granted, but nevertheless, freedom was a risk worth taking. Not a single drow dared bar their passage as they marched through the ruins of Menzoberranzan.

_______________________________________________________________________________

He is nearing the end of Undermountain. Nicos is growing tired of playing Halaster's games, and is pleased. Khalia is still following him, though the traps exceeded her ability to counter some time ago, and she now depends entirely on him to survive. This does not bother him. It is almost relaxing, after the number of people he once had to save.

There are more monsters and traps, but nothing that overly concerns him. Sparks flicker, heralding Halaster's arrival. About time.  
"Ah, you have come. Excellent," he says.  
"Do you have something to tell me or not?" Nicos says bluntly. "I've wasted enough time seeking you out already."  
"I do, I do… but first, tell me, who is that with you? What I have to tell you is for the Emperor's ears alone."  
"Emperor?" Khalia blurts out.  
"Indeed," says Halaster, with a child's glee, "though an Emperor without an Imperium. Such a shame. What _are_ you teaching that girl?"  
Nicos does not speak.  
"Oh, fine." Halaster waves a hand dismissively. "Get rid of your little disciple anyway. We wouldn't want a cult to grow up around you while we're talking. People will worship anything these days, won't they?"  
"Khalia, please leave us," Nicos says, seemingly unaffected by Halaster's claims. She obliges, though reluctantly. As soon as she is out of sight, Halaster practically leaps forward, gripping Nicos by the shoulders.  
"You have to get out of this reality! As soon as you can!" he hisses.  
"Explain. Now," Nicos demands.  
"There is no Warp here! Where you think your powers are coming from? You're ripping energy straight from the Weave, and it can't take it. Its energies were never meant to be torn apart so. Keep this up and you'll destroy it, and all magic in Faerun with it. You can't do that."  
"I can live without psychics for a time. Nor do I have any objection to returning to my own plane. _How_?"  
"That's the trick…" Halaster looks perplexed. "I do not know. Nor do I know what brought you here, but there are… clues."  
"No games, Halaster. If you were serious about not wanting me to use my power, you'd never have subjected me to your petty tests."  
"Experiments! I had to be sure!"  
"Or could it be that you have another motive? You know of my Imperium, at least enough to try and scare me with it, and I know you can't have learned that through mere divination. Who told you?"  
"Told me?" Halaster asks indignantly. "Do I look like I run errands?"  
"I don't care for your pride. You will tell me where you got the knowledge or I will take it from your mind myself. You know I can do it. Now talk."  
Halaster shivers, and for a moment Nicos worries.  
"Laeral," he says, and Nicos is relieved that he has not had to take it by force. He is confident he could defeat him, but would rather keep a low profile.  
"Laeral Silverhand," Halaster repeats. "She and her wretched husband. Don't ask me how they discovered it, I don't know that either. What they do above does not concern me… though they shall pay for interfering in my realm, in time."  
"Very well. I must speak to them, then. Where?"  
"I don't know!" Halaster cries, obviously frustrated. It is not an answer he is accustomed to giving. Nicos does not care for his feelings, though.  
"I haven't seen them since they sent the message. They ward themselves against divination anyway, even if I cared to speak to them. Which I don't," he adds spitefully.  
Nicos closes his eyes and stretches forth with his mind. He does not trust Halaster's divinations, and whatever his powers may do to the Weave, he must check for himself.  
"What… what are you? Don't! Didn't you-" Halaster sputters, but there is nothing he can do. Nicos casts his net wide, but nonetheless, it appears Halaster is right. He cannot sense the wizards he speaks of.  
"I am going," he states flatly. "Thank you, Halaster, for your aid."  
With that Nicos turns away. Halaster is another petty sorcerer lord, of no concern. Still, he knows where he must go next, and that is enough for now.  
"Come, Khalia," he says. "We must visit the Lords of Waterdeep."


	7. Chapter 7

"You are sure?" Szass Tam asked, expecting confirmation.  
"Of course. The Emperor has left Undermountain. Both he and Halaster yet live."  
"And he still knows nothing of our plans?"  
"Need you ask? I have done my part, Tam. It is whether you are capable of doing yours that I doubt."  
"The Rashemi?" Szass Tam chuckled. "They pose no threat, even with their new allies."  
"Do not underestimate them! The grey hunters are relentless!"  
"As are the Rashemi, but they are too few to make any difference. I am dealing with it personally. The Emperor should be your main concern."  
"The Emperor is not on our very doorstep! Halaster has set him on a futile chase. The Rashemi are the immediate threat."  
"You are too afraid. Immediate they may be, but they are in no position to threaten Thaymount. Even in a worst-case scenario, we shall be finished long before they could strike against us."  
Szass Tam sighed and dismissed the vision. It was a good enough alliance, and he had more confidence in him than in the zulkirs he'd bargained with, but nevertheless, he was not entirely satisfactory. Putting these thoughts aside, he summoned up the second ally he needed to speak to.  
"Yaphyll. You have news?"  
"Yes, most revered. It would be easier to show you in person, if I may?"  
Szass Tam considered for a moment. It was acceptable. He chanted a few words of a teleportation spell and the surrounds resolved themselves into Yaphyll's laboratory. The zulkir of divination had prepared a summoning circle, traced out in diamond dust. Yaphyll bowed to Tam and began chanting herself. Eldritch flames assembled in the circle's centre. In the midst of their crackling two dark slits of eyes presented themselves.  
_Who calls upon Lord Nasdrubaal of the five hundred and thirty fifth?_ it spoke.  
Neither answered the question. Both were experienced enough wizards to know of the power implicit in names, and that they should not speak theirs in a demon lord's presence.  
"Most revered, this demon was recently summoned by the drow of Menzoberranzan, and banished shortly thereafter. The circumstances of that banishment involve our mutual enemies."  
"Explain," Szass Tam said, addressing the demon.  
_You will know soon enough,_, it sniggered. _You have been blinded by your focus on the Emperor. Do you think he came alone? His primarchs stir in the west. Your tharchs will be laid to waste!_  
Yaphyll made a series of sharp gestures.  
_It was Sanguinius,_ the demon said, smarting with pain. _The drow are in uproar. He will emerge into the sunlit lands soon. You have not accounted for this, have you?_  
"No one else knows this?" Tam asked.  
"Of course, most revered."  
The demon laughed again. _Go on, lay your plans… you cannot control what I failed to. I shall be glad to be on another plane when your efforts collapse._  
"Is there more?"  
"Not of substance. This 'Sanguinius' was captured by the drow, escaped, and slew this demon when the drow summoned it in a bid to match him. Presumably he would seek to return to the Emperor."  
"This is a problem, Yaphyll. You will monitor Sanguinius' actions and continue to report them to me. Under no circumstances inform our guests."  
_You would not be so deluded as to believe Sanguinius is the only agent of the Emperor in Faerun, would you?_ Though a mere set of eyes in a flame had a limited range of expression, Nasdrubaal nonetheless carried off extreme smugness. Yaphyll gestured again, inflicting further pain on the demon lord.  
_No, I think not,_ it said. _I have said my piece. Your struggles will be amusing to watch._  
The flame started fading out, and though Yaphyll made frantic efforts to reinforce the summoning, she could not prevent the demon's departure.  
"Other agents?" Tam queried.  
The zulkir of divination stammered out a handful of excuses. If their knowledge of the interlopers was incomplete…  
"No matter," Szass Tam said sharply. "Focus on Sanguinius. I shall investigate this myself."

_______________________________________________________________________________

Piergeiron cast an angry gaze across the body of lords. They all knew what had happened, of course, and at least one of them was responsible. Someone had apparently thought it was a good idea to arrest the stranger, the one with no place in the Weave, by force. Piergeiron's agents had seen him leave the Yawning Portal, and doubtless the others too had had their spies present. Thus they all saw that when a Red Wizard and what appeared, to the naked eye, to be an olive-skinned mercenary in battered armour, left the inn they ran straight into a substantial detachment of the City Guard – _not_ the Watch – supervised by a Masked Lord in full regalia.  
"We are all fortunate he chose to come willingly," Piergeiron scowled.  
"Need I remind you all that we still don't know what we're dealing with? Whoever or whatever that person is, he's clearly powerful enough that Khelben Arunsun was afraid of him. Arresting him was foolhardy at best. Our duty is to provide for the safety of the city first and foremost, for those of you that have evidently forgotten."  
He made no attempt to hide his anger. The Lords of Waterdeep were supposed to provide a united front to the city; he could not undo what had been done. There would have to be punishments, in time, but for now, he, and they, had no choice but to go along with it.  
"What's done is done," one lord ventured. "What are we to do now?"  
"What is known of the man?"  
"He calls himself Nicos," another answered. "He also had the temerity to point out that he had broken no laws of Waterdeep, civil or religious."  
"And we will not detain a man who has committed no crime," Piergeiron emphasised. "We are not tyrants."  
"Of course," responded another lord, waving a placating hand. "But as you have so kindly pointed out, our duty is to Waterdeep first and foremost, and he is a potential threat."  
"He refused to speak to the City Guard," one said. Piergeiron noted that each lord was avoiding saying too much, to avoid the suspicion that they had been the one to arrest him.  
"Nothing at all," the same lord continued. "We know little more than when we started, and all immediate divinations turned up short. He requested to speak with this council."  
"We cannot grant this! First Khelben, now this stranger? We are not to be bullied like some jury!"  
"What else would you have us do? Sit here and wait forever? As the Open Lord says, we cannot hold him indefinitely. What are we to do, if not grant his audience?"  
"My colleague is correct! We must grant this audience!"  
Despite some grumbling, the majority were in favour of speaking to the stranger. Piergeiron took some comfort in that they were at least still that sane.

Nicos was brought in then, slowly. He was accompanied by two of the City Guard, but it was obvious to Piergeiron that they were there only because he allowed it. Nicos did not carry himself with any fear or timidity. On the contrary, he stood erect and regarded each lord openly.  
"You have questions," he said. "Ask, and I may answer."  
The lords began with dull, conventional questions. His name, homeland, business in Waterdeep, and so on. In each case, he gave plausible if unremarkable answers. Nicos was not, in itself, an unusual name, nor was it particularly odd that a displaced mercenary from the Lake of Steam should find himself looking for work in Waterdeep, nor that he should sign on with a Red Wizard interested in looting Undermountain. His answers didn't active the zone of truth he was standing in either, but considering the earlier failures of divination to discover the truth, Piergeiron didn't put much stock in that.  
"Interesting," Piergeiron said. "Unfortunately, you're also lying. My fellow lords may have tiptoed around the point, but we all know –"  
"Yes. You do," interrupted Nicos. "But what are you going to do about it?"  
"Surely you understand that we are obligated to consider the welfare of this city –"  
"As well you should. A leader should do no less, but knowing the answer to that question would not enable you to protect Waterdeep any better. I assure you, I do not mean to harm your domain. Help me finish my business and I will be gone."  
"Business?" Piergeiron's eyes narrowed with suspicion.  
"Laeral and Khelben. Where are they?"  
The lords were taken aback at so blunt a demand, though most retained a measure of composure, aided by their enchanted masks.  
"You may have some time to consider your options," Nicos said, as if he was being generous.

_______________________________________________________________________________

It was only the second day of the march, and Aravilar was already in awe of Sanguinius. Not that he hadn't been previously, of course, but while knowing someone had toppled Narbondel was frightening, there was something infinitely more terrifying about seeing them in combat up close. Without their winged giant, he doubted they'd have made it half as far as they had, but despite his admitted respect for Sanguinius, Aravilar was still perplexed by a few things.

The angel stood over a gutted kua-toa, sword clenched in a white-knuckled fist. This was not the first time the aquatic fiends had attacked the ex-slaves, and each time, Sanguinius slew those that approached him with no apparent effort. Yet each time, he also failed to fight those that didn't attack him. Sanguinius was an invincible whirlwind of destruction among the kua-toa that obstructed his path, but the rest of the column apparently had to fend for themselves. It wasn't that Sanguinius ignored the other kua-toa, as such. On the contrary, he would stop and watch the others fighting with an imperceptibly distant expression.

Aravilar grunted, thrusting a short drow spear into a drooling kua-toa. The monster gurgled in pain and sought to snatch the spear's haft, but Aravilar had extracted it before the kua-toa came around. Another slave leapt forth, hacking at the kua-toa with a curved sword, and it went down. Aravilar had no time to thank him, as he was too busy protecting himself from the next enemy. He spun the spear in his hands, taking a few paces back to put some distance between him and the second kua-toa. When the kua-toa was distracted, driving his spear into the human with the curved blade, Aravilar was able to step forth and put it down with a quick jab towards its neck. Panting, he saw that the battle was over. This had been a small raid, but another three slaves were dead.

Aravilar approached Sanguinius, making no attempt to conceal his anger. It seemed he was the only slave who could talk to the giant, for whatever reason, and Sanguinius had the elf teaching him about Faerun.  
"How can you just keep standing there?!" Aravilar said, fury mitigated only by the clear strength of the primarch.  
"You could have killed all those monsters! But you keep watching, doing nothing! Three more are dead this time, and why? What possible excuse could you have?"  
Sanguinius released his grip on his sword, sending it crashing to the ground, and Aravilar suddenly noticed that the giant was breathing hard.  
"Two reasons," he said slowly, unclenching his teeth.  
"First of all, I am not a nanny. My purpose is not to shield them, and you, from every misfortune you may encounter. I said the journey would be hard, and I did not lie. You will stand on your own two feet or you will die. I will not carry you."  
"But that's selfish!" Aravilar objected. "Where does it stop? Will you not help anyone?"  
"Helping?" Sanguinius asked. "It would hurt them far more if I was their shield. I have seen this time and time again. Men want saviours. More than anything, they want a perfect leader who will vanquish evil and save them from all personal responsibility. I am not that leader."  
A beat passed; then, Sanguinius continued.  
"Perhaps I was once. There was a time when I would have charged in and saved them all. Every action has consequences, though. That path led to the Great Betrayal. Entire planetary populations, billions upon billions of people, swore loyalty to the lords of Chaos. Why do you think that was?"  
Aravilar wilted under Sanguinius' gaze. "I… I don't know what you're talking about, but… there are always people willing to follow evil, aren't there?"  
"No. That wasn't it. You can't blame their natures, say 'but those people, they were evil, _we're_ not like that'. All they did was follow their leaders. Horus, Lorgar, Fulgrim, Alpharius… even us, the supposed loyalists. We slew their enemies, made them part of our Imperium, and banished their fears. They didn't fight for their freedom. We did. And when we were corrupted, they followed us, because we had taught them no better."  
Sanguinius was getting angry again.  
"That was our – and my – failure. We were the primarchs, the sons of the Emperor, born of his flesh to conquer the galaxy in his name. Don't you see? We were supposed to be _better_ than them! Perfect lords for a perfect Imperium! By the end, we believed it too, and we didn't ask people to question. It was meant to be a quest for truth, you see. We brought the Imperial Truth to the myriad peoples of the galaxy, so that they could be enlightened and become part of a greater humanity. But a greater humanity must be made of greater humans, and somewhere that was forgotten, and the Crusade became about us and our ambitions. We competed with each other. Russ and the Lion, Rogal and Perturabo, Roboute and Alpharius… even I and Angron. Truth, uplifting the humans we saved, none of that mattered any more. We bred mindless sheep to follow us, and like sheep, they did. Billions marched into damnation because we'd taught them we were gods, that it was better to obey us than to question us."  
Sanguinius looked Aravilar straight in the eye.  
"_That_ is why they must learn to stand for themselves. You wanted me to help them? I will. I will be their saviour, and I will teach them to rise above themselves."  
"… and the second reason?" Aravilar whispered.  
"I might lose myself again. None of you would survive."  
With that, Sanguinius tucked his wings in close and disappeared into the dark passages of the Underdark.

_______________________________________________________________________________

Nicos is silent. His body sits in a cell underneath Waterdeep, but his thoughts are far off. He meditates on what he has learned. He stretches out with delicate tendrils of psychic force, looking at this Weave. It is different, he can tell now. He realises now he had been blinded to its nature by its emptiness. He had been so fixated on the disappearance of Chaos that he had failed to see what else had changed. It has been such a long time since he had tasted the Warp free of the oily taint of Chaos that he could barely recognise it.

He stretches further, parting its strands as gently as he knows how. There are no emotions, no souls, no presences hiding within… but wait, perhaps there is. From a great distance he hears a voice, and knows it is that of this realm's mistress. The goddess of magic. He expects her to plead, as did Halaster, but she does not. Nicos' presence reaches hers, and for a moment their minds mesh.

Then they separate, and Nicos knows. She is the Weave and she rules it, and would go to any length to protect it. That is why she has reached out to him. He is, for her, the lesser evil. _Who? Who is the greater threat? Who has made all of this happen?_ he calls, but the moment is gone. He reaches out again, flailing his psychic might, but he cannot find her again. There is something else interfering. He narrows his mind and seeks to find the source.

There is a sudden flash, and Nicos' eyes snap open. A robed figure has collapsed in front of him.  
"Are-are you all right?" Khalia asks, the last sparks of energy from her spell dissipating. Nicos does not answer immediately. He is irritated at having his concentration broken by something so unimportant as an assassin. He kneels and pulls back the assassin's hood, revealing a shaved and tattooed head.  
"A friend of your master's?" he asks.  
"What – no!" Khalia replies emphatically. "Druxus Rhym has no need to kill you. This must be some other zulkir's agent!"  
"And yet he managed to infiltrate these dungeons," Nicos continues. "He must have had help, must he not?"  
"You mean a lord of Waterdeep?" Khalia says, ticking down the possibilities. "Certainly getting a Thayan assassin into the lords' dungeons would require inside help. Some alliance, then, crossing the continent?"  
_And centred on me._  
Nicos leaves the corpse and walks to the cell door.  
"Guard," he says with authority. "Get me the Open Lord."  
The guard gapes and moves to protest, but Nicos simply points at the dead assassin.  
"O-of course," he stammers, "right away," and rushes off.  
"So," Nicos resumes, turning back to Khalia. "I think we can safely say the Watch isn't in on this. He was invisible, presumably?"  
The Red Wizard nods her assent. "That's odd," she says, "because these cells ought to have antimagic fields cast on them. I should never have been able to cast the spell that killed him either. You'd need considerable influence to get the field taken down."  
"A lord."  
"A lord," Khalia confirms.  
The clatter of footsteps signified the return of the guard.  
"He _is_ fast, isn't he?" Nicos murmurs.  
Piergeiron arrived with the guard, took in the situation at a glance, and said something most unpaladinlike.  
"Are you done considering?" Nicos asks.  
"Damn it, I never thought they'd be _this_ stupid…" Piergeiron grimaces. "All right, we've been compromised. Get both of them out of here, we'll have to keep them somewhere else."  
"It's too late. You know this," Nicos states flatly. "There is at least one traitor among the lords. There is nowhere you can put me. I shall ask you again, where can I find Laeral and Khelben?"  
"You will not make demands of me," the Paladinson retorts, but is cut off before he can proceed further.  
"You can't guarantee my safety or that of the wizard. We have committed no crime, and you know full well it is only a matter of time before this escalates again. Think of the city, Open Lord."  
Piergeiron says nothing, and Nicos presses on.  
"You do not understand me, and men fear what they do not understand. But I had heard paladins were immune to fear. Will you condemn a man who has done you no wrong, out of fear, or will you have faith that I have not lied to you?"  
Nicos tenses. This may not be enough, but he has better. He wishes to hurry, though.  
"…they're both gone. The Blackstaff Tower is empty and no one's seen them for days. That's not unusual, but it's not like Arunsun to keep his nose out of a crisis. I'm sorry."  
The door clicks open and Nicos exits.  
"Take heart, Open Lord. I will be gone and Waterdeep will be safe. You have done right."  
"I can't guarantee you'll have long before the others discover you're gone. Get out of the city as quickly as you can."  
Nicos thanks Piergeiron as he runs. He's glad he didn't have to force them.


	8. Chapter 8

"What now?" Khalia asks.

What now indeed? Nicos has left Waterdeep, and now, under an open sky, he considers his next move. He must find this Laeral, that much is certain. He has pulled much from the minds that surround him, and knows that by repute she is one of Seven Sisters. Perhaps one of the others can lead him to her.

"I will head north," he pronounces.

Khalia looks unsure: "And me? Where are am I going?"

"Wherever you wish, of course," Nicos responds. She will follow him, he knows. Even if she wasn't still under orders to watch him, natural curiosity would demand it. She knows this too; he is toying with her.

"Stop. I deserve some answers. Halaster called you emperor. Who are you?"

"Deserve?" the man chuckles. "What reason have I to tell you whatever secrets you think I have? Have you earned that much through service?"

"I've followed you and aided you," she reminds him.

"Because you were ordered to," he says back blandly. "I never asked you to."

Khalia balls her hands into fists. Nicos knows he's aggravating her. Should he care?

"I want to know," she says, deliberately. "And I saved your life in the cell."

Perhaps he should. Who was the last person who did so much for him? It was... Horus.... he realises belatedly. He remembers the ork's hand around his neck. Had he been so truthful with Horus? For a moment regret strikes him. He is tempted to peer into the future before deciding, but his precognition has proven faulty before and he has resolved not to rely on it. Impulsively, and perhaps unwisely, he will answer.

"So you did," he admits. "Very well, though I am afraid some things will be beyond your understanding. Halaster called me an emperor, and such I am, or was. I was the Emperor of Mankind, and as I unified my home world of Terra, so my armies spread out across the stars. They sought to unite the human race into a great Imperium. After a thousand years of conquest and reorganisation, forces in this Imperium rose up and sought to dethrone me. Even now, I believe, they besiege Terra itself. I do not know why I am here, in your world, but I seek to return to my Imperium."

His description is short and devoid of emotional content. He chooses not to mention the primarchs. Nor does he attempt to portray his rule in a positive or negative light. He was never particularly involved with the administration of his empire; in truth, he may not be able to make that judgement.

"That doesn't tell me very much," Khalia says after a pause. "You ruled an empire? Travelled between worlds? How? Or why?"

"There are machines that can transport one between worlds," Nicos explains. "As for the why... humanity must be united. It is a young race, but one with potential. There are great evils that threaten humanity's future. Guidance is... necessary."

Khalia absorbs this. "What threats? And who are you to be such a guide? You're not human, are you?"

Nicos smiles wistfully. "I am human." Possibly too much so. Or not enough. He wishes he knew which. "I am unusual, but nonetheless I am physically human. Understand that I am old, beyond uncounted years. I have seen the best and worst of my kind. A guide is needed. Were there a better one, I would gladly step down."

He does not mention Chaos. She does not need to know. It will be better if she lives in ignorance for a while longer. For a moment he remembers the Imperial Truth. He cannot tell the truth of Chaos, but at least he need not tell such comforting lies again.

"What about your powers?" she pushes. "If you're human, where do they come from?"

"I cannot explain," he says. "Their source does not exist in this world."

"If the source doesn't exist here," she frowns, "then how can you still use them?"

"That's enough questions," Nicos says with finality. He might have said too much already, but he can't deny that it feels good to say a little about himself.

"We will head north. We must find Laeral Silverhand or her husband. We will ask the Arcane Brotherhood of Luskan, or failing that, the Lady Alustriel might know her sister's whereabouts."

* * *

A light opened at the end of the tunnel, and Aravilar's heart sang with joy. Elves were not meant to labour underground, and even the rest of the ex-slaves, mostly human, were visibly relieved. Sanguinius planted his sword next to the exit and stood, grave-faced, as his charges struggled out. The cave emerged into a snowy vista of jagged rocks and ice fields, but the touch of the sun on his face was enough to make Aravilar forget the cold. As the band stretched in the sunlight, Sanguinius struggled out himself – the small opening was hard on the giant, even with his wings tucked in – and set about searching for a suitable rock. Wrenching a boulder from the ice, he thrust it across the cave opening, so that they couldn't be followed out.

Then Sanguinius joined the others, and stretched his silken wings wide. It was the first time Aravilar had seen them fully extended; end to end, each one was longer than Sanguinius was tall, and they reflected the sun's rays magnificently. A hint of a smile braved the angel's face; again, the first time Aravilar had seen such a thing. He beat his wings once, as if testing them, and then leapt into the air.

Whoops and cries of astonishment went up from the ex-slaves, and though he couldn't see his face, Aravilar imagined Sanguinius was the happiest he'd been since the drow city. And why not? Aravilar himself was filled with joy, his freedom only seeming real now, having escaped the Underdark. He cheered too, as he would upon seeing a caged bird free at last.

After circling gracefully several times, Sanguinius descended. He jumped adroitly to the ground.

"We can't stay here long," he said. "Several miles to the south there is a herd of white rothé-" Aravilar had been teaching him about Faerun "-that you can catch. The slopes ease further in that direction, so it's your best chance of finding settlement."

Aravilar nodded determinedly. "And you?" he asked.

"As I've said, I won't shoulder your burdens for you. I will take to the skies again and find the lay of the land. I shall return and give directions."

"Depending on where we are," the elf mused, "some of us might recognise the land and be able to help. You could carry one of us."

"Have any of you flown before?" Sanguinius asked.

"What? No, of course not."

"Any landmarks you know, you will be familiar with as seen from the ground. A landscape can look quite different from the air."

"Er, I see," Aravilar said sheepishly. "Come nightfall we can check the stars, though. We might be able to find where we are from there. If you can, you might be able to ask any other travellers. If you find a settlement, then could you tell them to send out search parties for us?"

"I will tell them where you are. What they do will be up to them," Sanguinius told him. Aravilar had feared the angel might prefer to leave them to rely on their own strength entirely, so he was grateful for this much.

Sanguinius shrugged his shoulders, stretching, and mounted one of the icy boulders. He didn't need the added height to tower over any of the ex-slaves, but they turned at his shadow regardless. Sanguinius took in the sight of them, as if in consideration.

"You have come far from the drow city," he pronounced. "I have led you but not aided you, and I have seen you come this far on your own strength. You have defended yourself admirably, and earned my respect. I will leave you now, for a time. I shall return, but I will not stay with you for this part of the journey. You have survived the Underdark. You will survive the mountains."

* * *

"I hate this," Alusair grumbled to herself. Since finding the giant in the forest, the noble houses had leaped on the opportunity to try and discredit the throne. She'd had quite enough of their petty complaints and attempts to turn simple charity into a scandal. No, they hadn't known who or what the giant was, and yes, they'd quartered him at royal expense, and yes, he'd refused to tell them a thing about himself and refused any interrogation, but how was one _supposed_ to respond upon discovering a man obviously in pain and in need of help?

She put her boots up messily. Someone would probably be along to chastise her for dirtying the upholstery later, but honestly she didn't much care. She wanted to hit something, and she hadn't had a chance to go out with the Blades since the day they'd found the giant. Violence was cathartic, and nothing created a need in her for catharsis more than politics. Impassivity and diplomacy did not come naturally to Alusair. She could play the game, and in public played it well, but in private she needed to vent. If she couldn't spare the time to go hunting, then the servants would need to cope with a little extra wear on the furniture.

There was a knock at the palace door. Alusair growled and stood up. She took a moment to compose herself, breathing deeply. She put a hand to her head, and judged that her hair was about as straight as it was likely to get in the next thirty seconds. She crossed to the door and opened it.

"Oh, it's just you, Fil," she said, deflating. "What is it?"

The dowager queen stepped in delicately.

"I see you've been abusing the furniture again" Filfaeril said mildly.

"Don't start," Alusair warned. "I really don't care right now. What are they saying now?"

Filfaeril raised an eyebrow.

"Probably what they've been saying all along. That's not what I wanted to tell you. The giant has come out of his quarters. He's asking to talk to the one who found him."

"So go get Brace," she responded. "He's the one who ran into him."

Fil waited a moment.

"Wait, he's come out?" Alusair said, the impact hitting her. "Well, where is he?"

"Just a moment," the dowager reproved her. "What would you say when you find him?"

Alusair sighed. "I'm not a kid, Fil. Just tell me."

"He's still in his quarters, actually," she admitted. "He came out, said he wanted the people who found him brought to him, and went back in."

Fil could be terribly annoying, but Alusair found herself taking her advice, and several hours later she was hideously dolled up and, inwardly cursing her skirts, entered the quarters given to the giant.

"I am the regent," she announced. "The party that encountered you did so under my direct command." She was in little mood to fuss around, after arguing with overzealous guards who hadn't wanted to leave her alone with the creature.

The giant was sitting in a chair that seemed comically undersized for his massive frame.

"You will determine my fate?" he asked bluntly.

"Yes," Alusair responded firmly. "You are here at my discretion and I will decide what is to be done with you. My decision will depend upon your cooperation. Are you willing to answer my questions?"

"I am a prisoner here," he informed her. "My duty demands my silence."

"We cannot give you free reign knowing nothing of you," the regent said testily. "I will ask you several questions. Answer or not, but you are more likely to find freedom if you cooperate."

The giant remained silent, his head lowered and face impassionate.

"What is your name?" Alusair asked, to begin with.

"Absurd," the giant muttered. "My name is Alexis."

"Very well. What duty do you have that would prevent you saying more?"

The giant – Alexis – glowered darkly. "What game is this?" he demanded.

"There is no game," Alusair said flatly. "We know nothing about you. We need to start with basics. What duty holds your tongue?"

"This is absurd," he grimaced again. "My duty to my liege and master. You would understand that, wouldn't you?"

Alusair refused to be baited and didn't answer his question.

"Who is your master?" she asked.

"My master is the Emperor."

"What emperor?"

"There is only one Emperor."

This giant was a stubborn, obstructive bastard. Alusair continued doggedly.

"Do you report to this emperor?"

The giant sighed. "As you know from my armour, I am a captain of the VII Legion Astartes. I report to Rogal Dorn."

"Who is Dorn?"

"Enough of these games. You know who Dorn is and you know who the Emperor is. Why don't you just take me to your master Horus and get it over with?"

Alusair decided to try a different tack.

"Where do you think you are?"

"I think I am in a room being asked stupid questions by a woman in the service of the arch-traitor, and I think your illusions and attempts to disorient me are futile. Get on with it."

"You are wrong," she informed him directly. "I am the princess regent of Cormyr. I serve the realm, the young king, the people, and the gods. What traitor do you refer to?"

"Just take me to Horus, instead of wasting my time with this nonsense!" he roared, standing in anger.

Alusair set her teeth and kept calm.

"I am trying to find out if you are our enemy. You already believe I serve some evil I do not know and have never heard of. The only way you will get out of this room is if you can show us why you should be trusted; and that means you will have to trust we mean you no harm. If we wanted you dead, we would have killed you when we found you. You can trust us enough to answer a few questions and get your freedom, or you can remain here in your paranoia and achieve nothing."

Alexis sat again, taking deep breaths.

"The risk..." he ruminated, "... may be acceptable. I shall tell you nothing of military value, however," he insisted.

"We don't ask for that," Alusair replied, growing in confidence. "Now, why don't you tell me about this emperor, Horus, and Dorn?"

* * *

They walk north, a pair of anonymous travellers. They _walk._ This feels unusual for Nicos. He is used to technology. He did not rely upon it, physically, but he had become accustomed to its presence. Or he could simply levy his psychic might and travel far more swiftly, but he will not do so unless it is necessary. For now, he walks.

He is reminded of his youth; or his relative youth, at least. For almost the first ten thousand years of his life, this was how he had always travelled. Then, technology – its development not inspired but at least guided by himself – had made itself omnipresent, and humanity's artificial environments began to overtake the natural. Much of what it means to be human is created and conditioned by one's environment. There was a change, he thinks, when humanity ceased to be a natural species and became an artificial species. Many changes. Some for the good, some for the bad... he tried to bring about the former, but as humanity spread among the stars, he could not guide every world. Some humans created artificial environments that he shudders to recall. Some had needed to be torn down and rebuilt. He had created rules of compliance for this purpose. Perhaps he should have overseen their implementation more closely.

Nonetheless, for thousands of years before artificial man – Stone Man – had been born, there had been a human race that adapted to its environment, rather than adapting its environment to itself. Gold Man. These are reductive categories; he has no illusions about that. Even when he was born, humans built settlements and domesticated plants and animals, changing their environment. To draw a strict line between the humanities of internal adaptation and external adaptation is fraught with difficulty. Yet when he was born, Chaos was already rising. Civilisation had been young then, and the memories given to him by his creators told him that before civilisation, there had been no Chaos. Those memories are wistful and resigned. Are they his emotions, or those of his creators? He has considered this before, but has no answer. To a degree he _is_ the shaman; he is the Shaman and he is the New Man and he knows not how to draw a line between them. So he has spent tens of millennia trying to chart a course between the peaceful harmony they remember, and the glories of civilisation he has seen; a course that will avoid Chaos forever.

Perhaps it is futile. He knows that is a possibility. He also knows, though, that with or without him humans would create civilisation. He could have stopped it, all that time ago, but back then he had thought it a risk worth taking. He had been idealistic then. Perhaps he still is, but surely not as much so? Chaos has whispered to him before, amidst the night and the darkness. It is futile. There is no balance to be found. Your faith in humanity is misplaced. There is only one possible end. Submit to it. End your suffering. He has doubted himself, sometimes, but he has never faltered in opposition to Chaos. In that, he still takes solace.

But in this place, there is no Chaos. Somehow, there is not. It is like there had been a low hum in the back of his mind, there for so many millennia that he had come to forget it was there, and now the sound is gone. He had wondered if its absence was a trick. It still might be. He does not think it is, though, and just as he has for the past, he must proceed on what he believes, doubts and all. It was easier to put the doubts aside before, he thinks. Before Horus. That one surprise, out of the blue... had he ever been right?

Horus could have done it. Of all his sons, Horus was most capable of balancing natural man and artificial man. The others argued. He of the iron hands had advocated the outright destruction of natural man. The lion lord had not gone so far, but had argued that artificial man must expand, defeat the beasts of the wild, and shackle natural man to his will. The wolf lord had disagreed vehemently; he still remembers their arguments. The scarred one had followed the wolf, naturally. So they had debated. But Horus, Horus most of all... he could have done it.

Or perhaps he could not have. Painful though it is to contemplate it, he wonders if the entire primarch project was a mistake. The primarchs: artificial men in the most fundamental sense. Perhaps the balance had been wrong in he himself. Was he no less artificial, remembering the shaman?

The shaman do not whisper to him any more. In his first millennia of life, they had often done so. He dimly remembers his parents – his original, biological parents – worrying about him when he told them he heard voices. Those voices had been his constant companions. At times he had learned to let others hear them; great seers, visionaries, and spiritual leaders came of it. Eventually, though, as time passed, he heard them more and more infrequently. Finally they'd seemed to stop. He hadn't worried at first. Another large gap between messages was not unusual. After a time, though, he'd sought to find them, using all his divinatory science. He'd found that their echoes had simply weakened over time. He'd had more important things to go on with, and hadn't enquired further. Remembering his youth, he remembers the shaman. He has been a guide to humanity, but the shaman were his guides. Walking out here, he has little to do but reflect, and momentarily wishes for their voices again.

"Are you all right?" Khalia asks, noticing his preoccupation. Nicos wonders why he has taken her with him. It is an unnecessary risk. He does not need a guide to Faerun, and her master will likely prove his enemy. And in Undermountain, she had mentioned the supposed overgod of this world. Is he wise to take her with him? One more thing for him to doubt. What will one more matter, in the middle of five hundred lifetimes of doubt?

"I'm fine," he replies. "I'm just thinking."


End file.
